


As Old as the Sun, As New as the Moon

by shouldbeover



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Declarations Of Love, Fluff, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 23:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20768513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldbeover/pseuds/shouldbeover
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley showing each other love. That's it.





	As Old as the Sun, As New as the Moon

They are not young, but neither are they old, in any real sense. They just are. Made to be unchanging: ever serene angel, ever seething demon.

And yet...

Aziraphale _feels_ young. He feels like he’s in the height of first love. Which he is. Not Romeo’s love, changing from Rosaline to Juliet in the drop of a handkerchief (or was that the other one? Well, the point remains), but the real thing.

They’ve had 6,000 years, give or take, to fall, to rise, to know: this, this, is my beloved.

He feels young, despite looking what youth might think over-the-hill. He knows that even humans of fifty, fifty-five, sixty, more, can still feel passion, no matter what the youth think. They’ll find out, God willing.

But this…he wasn’t prepared for this. This desperate need. This is brand new, and in that he is as young as the first hormonal teenager.

It scares him. He’s gotten past being scared of the love. Armageddoff will do that to you. There is no one and nothing that he loves as much as Crowley.

  
(Well, She’s still there, but she still isn’t returning his calls. Crowley is here. Crowley is tangible. In the flesh. Such solid flesh.)

Crowley’s flesh.

This need scares him. This desire. This overwhelming hunger for every part of Crowley.

His sculpted features, of course, his wonderous lips, his precious, otherworldly eyes.

But the sight of just Crowley’s forearm, sleeve rolled up, can make him breathless, make him dizzy, all of his blood rushing out of his head to, well…

Very embarrassing in public. Oh, they can turn people’s eyes away, but miracles take a little concentration, and he has no concentration, no brain power left when Crowley looks at him. All he can think about is the last time their skin touched, Crowley’s mouth on the flesh of his shoulder, hands roaming his back. His hands in Crowley’s hair, clutching at him, to bring him even closer. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.

Why are they even in public? Why did they ever leave their bed, when they could be wrapped in the sheets, wrapped in each other forever? The weaknesses of the flesh do not touch them, and time has no meaning to immortals like them. There will never be enough time.

All he can think about is when can they be touching again. When can he slide Crowley’s shirt from his shoulders, kiss along his spine, worship at this new altar? When can they be spread out again together with no other thought but you, YOU, **YOU**!

Two middle-aged men “petting,” “snogging,” “sucking face,” in the park. It draws comments, attention, disgust, annoyance. None of which they need, especially now. It embarrasses him, not because he’s ashamed of their love, but because it’s too pure to be ogled at by curious or contemptuous eyes. Not heaven’s, hell’s, or anyone’s in between.

Public displays of affection are to be avoided, because the slightest touch makes him ravenous for more, more, more. For an endless buffet of Crowley. If he touches Crowley in public, he won’t be able to stop at a simple brush of fingers, an arm around his waist. He’ll have him up against a tree, frantically pulling off buttons and jamming zippers. Next thing you know, his wings will be shielding them, and wouldn’t that be hard to explain away to anyone, occult or human?

He sits at a discrete distance in the park, at restaurant tables, no matter how intimate. Just as he always has, when all he knew was his love for Crowley and his duty. Now he only has his duty to Crowley. It’s his duty to show Crowley how loved he is. How worthy of love. He could do it with words. God and Heaven both know how many books he’s read (Heaven viewed it as a waste. She didn’t comment). Surely he could borrow or steal a few to praise Crowley for a few decades in chaste love? Yes, but now he knows. He’s bitten fully into the apple of knowledge and he KNOWS. He knows the taste of Crowley’s skin, knows his smell when he’s aroused, and when he’s satiated. Knows the flush that spreads down Crowley’s chest, over his flat stomach. The Garden of Earthly Delights is open. He can write the words into Crowley’s lips, trace them over his skin in long lost languages. Love and lust tumble over in his brain, inseparable. He let himself love Crowley long ago. He’s only recently let himself want him, and the flood waters don’t seem to be receding.

Maybe it will recede, just a little, at some point. Maybe there will be a point where he can bear to have Crowley more than a few inches away. Maybe they will be able to sit together again, on the couch in the shop, or perhaps in a little home for the both of them, in peaceful silence, like long married couples do. For now, they are young lovers, peeling the other out of their clothes as soon as the doors are shut, desperate. Every moment not kissing, touching, tasting, taking, is a moment wasted, and they’ve already wasted so much time. He tries not to think of how long they could have had this, had each other, and remember that they have so much spread ahead of them.

***

Crowley has loved for so long, he almost feels as though he’s grown old waiting for Aziraphale. Or could have. Just waiting and watching. But he doesn’t have to, wait, that is. He could happily watch forever.

Aziraphale is an angel of passions. He’s known that since Eden. Impulsive, reckless, considering consequences only after the fact. He eats too much, too richly. He drinks too much. Spends far too much on books. To be the object of that passion is endlessly startling, overwhelming bliss. He almost doesn’t know what to do with it. Aziraphale looks at him like he’s the most choice gourmet meal ever laid out at the finest restaurant in the world, the rarest manuscript saved from the fries of Alexandria.

The sex is…extraordinary. Aziraphale is insatiable. Innocent in his wonder, perverse in his delight. They can’t keep their hands off of each other.

When he thought about it, let himself think about it before, he thought he’d be the one desperate, frantic with thousands of years of waiting, half mad for just a touch of skin. He knew he’d take whatever Aziraphale gave him, no matter how small, a tender kiss at bedtime, curling up together on the sofa. But instead it’s Aziraphale who is, to pardon the expression, the demon in the bedroom. Not that Crowley is complaining. Soft, delicious, pale pink skin, flushing up before they’ve barely begun. Hands everywhere, lips _everywhere_, pristine clothing tossed aside without a thought (the greatest sign of Aziraphale’s passion).

What Crowley relishes most is the ability to say it, to not have to bite his serpent tongue, or hold back the flood of love he’s nurtured, shielded, fed with drops of hope for all these millennia. “I love you, I love you, I love you, Angel. I adore you. I worship you. I’d kneel at your feet in prayer if I could, if you’d let me. I _need_ you. I want you. Give me anything you can spare. Let me give you everything, every gift I’ve hoarded for you for so many years. I’m yours, always, always, for eternity.”

He worries that Aziraphale will get tired of hearing it. Get tired of Crowley’s endless need to be declaring and showing his love. “I saw this and thought of you,” a priceless book, a tacky angel themed pin, a night at the theater. But so far Aziraphale accepts, with a blush, with a tut, “You shouldn’t have!” that means, oh, you definitely should. But he also smiles, that angelic smile, blinding in its joyfulness, playfulness, tenderness. He thanks Crowley in kisses, possessive, and glorious, in fingers that tug at red hair, in whispered, “Bed, NOW!”

And he thanks in little gifts of his own, a sad, droopy plant, “…that I know you can save,” “I got you this C. D. (pronounced with the careful precision of someone trying to speak a different language) that the person in the shop said was the latest hit that all the kids are listening to,” “I thought we might stay in tonight, order Chinese, and watch those movies you’re always going on about. I promise not to laugh.” Another proof of Aziraphale’s need: noodles left in unopened cartons, dumplings dropped in soy sauce, growing cold, movie running on without an audience, a book dropped (well, not dropped. Aziraphale does have SOME priorities left)—say placed—aside, without even a ribbon to mark his page for a return to bed. 

Aziraphale says it back. It’s almost too much for Crowley’s wounded heart to bear. “I love you, my dear, my dearest Crowley, my love, my heart. My Angel.”

“’M not. You know that,” Crowley will choke out the words. A world lost, a universe, a title and place taken from him.

“Only because you were too good for Heaven, my sweetest demon.”

“Shaddup. ‘M not an angel.”

Aziraphale will turn Crowley’s face with soft hands, force him to look in heaven-blue eyes, “You are MY Angel. My savior. My righteous avenger. That’s all that matters now. The other…others can, can…go HANG!” Strong words indeed.

“To the world!” they’d said, after everything had changed. After nothing had changed. Just before everything changed when the Principality of the Eastern gate took the serpent’s hand, and said, “I love you. I have for so long.”


End file.
